"How did you know?"
"Oh, intuition, of course--who wouldn't have cried themselves to sleep,and so tired too!"
"You're a nice sympathetic man, anyhow," she laughed; "what a pity youdon't bicycle!"
"Yes," I said, "I would give a thousand pounds for a bicycle at thismoment."
"You ought to get a good one for that," she laughed,--"all bright partsnickel, I suppose; indeed, you should get a real silver frame and goldhandle-bars for that, don't you think? Well, it would be nice all thesame to have your company a few miles, especially as it's growingdark," she added.
"Especially as it's growing dark," I repeated.
"You won't be going much farther to-night. Have you fixed on yourinn?" I continued innocently. She had--but that was in a town too farto reach to-night, after her long sleep.
"You might have wakened me," she said.
"Yes, it was stupid of me not to have thought of it," I answered,offering no explanation of the dead bee which at the moment I espied alittle away in the grass, and saying nothing of the merry tramp and themelancholy musician.
Then we talked inns, and thus she fell beautifully into the pit which Ihad digged for her; and it was presently arranged that she should rideon to the Wheel of Pleasure and order a dinner, which she was to do methe honour of sharing with me.
I was to follow on foot as speedily as might be, and it was with a highheart that I strode along the sunset lanes, hearing for some time thechiming of her bell in front of me, till she had wheeled it quite outof hearing, and it was lost in the distance.
I never did a better five miles in my life.
CHAPTER III
TWO TOWN MICE AT A COUNTRY INN.
When I reached the Wheel of Pleasure, I found Rosalind awaiting me inthe coffee-room, looking fresh from a traveller's toilette, and withthe welcome news that dinner was on the way. By the time I had washedoff the day's dust it was ready, and a merry meal it proved. Rosalindhad none of Alastor's objections to the wine-list, so we drank anexcellent champagne; and as there seemed to be no one in the hotel butourselves, we made ourselves at home and talked and laughed, nonedaring to make us afraid.
At first, on sitting down to table, we had grown momentarily shy, withone of those sudden freaks of self-consciousness which occasionallysurprise one, when, midway in some slightly unconventional situation towhich the innocence of nature has led us, we realise it--"for aninstant and no more."
Positively, I think that in the embarrassment of that instant I hadmade some inspired remark to Rosalind about the lovely country whichlay dreamy in the afterglow outside our window. Oh, yes, I remember thevery words. They were "What a heavenly landscape!" or somethingequally striking.
"Yes," Rosalind had answered, "it is almost as beautiful as the Strand!"
If I'd known her better, I should have exclaimed, "You dear!" and Ithink it possible that I did say something to that effect,--perhaps"You dear woman!" At all events, the veil of self-consciousness wasrent in twain at that remark, and our spirits rushed together at thistouch of London nature thus unexpectedly revealed.
London! I hadn't realised till this moment how I had been missing itall these days of rustication, and my heart went out to it with a vasthomesickness.
"Yes! the Strand," I repeated tenderly, "the Strand--at night!"
"Indeed, yes! what is more beautiful in the whole world?" she joined inardently.
"The wild torrents of light, the passionate human music, the hansoms,the white shirts and shawled heads, the theatres--"
"Don't speak of them or you'll make me cry," said Rosalind.
"The little suppers after the theatre--"
"Please don't," she cried, "it is cruel;" and I saw that her eyes wereindeed glistening with tears.
"But, of course," I continued, to give a slight turn aside in our talk,"it is very wrong of us to have such sophisticated tastes. We ought tolove these lonely hills and meadows far more. The natural man revels insolitude, and wants no wittier company than birds and flowers.Wordsworth made a constant companion of a pet daisy. He seldom wentabroad without one or two trotting at his side, and a skylark wouldkeep Shelley in society for a week."
"But they were poets," retorted Rosalind; "you don't call poetsnatural. Why, they are the most unnatural of men. The natural personloves the society of his kind, whereas the poet runs away from it."
"Well, of course, there are poets and poets, poets sociable and poetsvery unsociable. Wordsworth made the country, but Lamb made the town;and there is quite a band of poets nowadays who share his distaste formountains, and take London for their muse. If you'll promise not to cryagain, I'll recall some lines by a friend of mine which were writtenfor town-tastes like ours. But perhaps you know them?"
It will gratify my friend to learn that Rosalind had the verses I referto by heart, and started off humming,--
"Ah, London, London, our delight, Great flower that opens but at night, Great city of the midnight sun, Whose day begins when day is done... Like dragon-flies the hansoms hover With jewelled eyes to catch the lover;"
and so on, with a gusto of appreciation that must have been verygratifying to the author had he been present.
Thus perceiving a taste for a certain modern style of poetry in mycompanion, I bethought me of a poem which I had written on the roadsidea few days before, and which, I confess, I was eager to confide to somesympathetic ear. I was diffident of quoting it after such lines asRosalind had recalled, but by the time we had reached our coffee, Iplucked up courage to mention it. I had, however, the less diffidencein that it would have a technical interest for her, being indeed noother than a song of cycling a deux which had been suggested by one ofthose alarmist danger-posts always placed at the top of the pleasantesthills, sternly warning the cyclist that "this hill is dangerous,"--justas in life there is always some minatory notice-board frowning upon usin the direction we most desire to take.
But I omit further preface and produce the poem:--
"This hill is dangerous," I said, As we rode on together Through sunny miles and sunny miles Of Surrey heather; "This hill is dangerous--don't you think We'd better walk it?" "Or sit it out--more danger still!" She smiled--"and talk it?"
"Are you afraid?" she turned and cried So very brave and sweetly,-- Oh that brave smile that takes the heart Captive completely!
"Afraid?" I said, deep in her eyes Recklessly gazing; "For you I'd ride into the sun And die all blazing!"
"I never yet saw hill," I said, "And was afraid to take it; I never saw a foolish law, And feared to break it. Who fears a hill or fears a law With you beside him? Who fears, dear star, the wildest sea With you to guide him?"
Then came the hill--a cataract, A dusty swirl, before us; The world stood round--a village world-- In fearful chorus. Sure to be killed! Sure to be killed! O fools, how dare ye! Sure to be killed--and serve us right! Ah! love, but were we?
The hill was dangerous, we knew, And knew that we must take it; The law was strong,--that too we knew Yet dared to break it. And those who'd fain know how we fared Follow and find us, Safe on the hills, with all the world Safely behind us.
Rosalind smiled as I finished. "I'm afraid," she said, "the song is asdangerous as the hill. Of course it has more meanings than one?"
"Perhaps two," I assented.
"And the second more important than the first."
"Maybe," I smiled; "however, I hope you like it."
Rosalind was very reassuring on that point, and then said musingly, asif half to herself, "But that hill is dangerous, you know; and youngpeople would do well to pay attention to the danger-board!"
Her voice shook as she spoke the last two or three words, and I lookedat her in some surprise.
"Yes, I know it," she added, her voice quite broken; and before Irealised what was happening, there she was with her beautif
ul head downupon the table, and sobbing as if her heart would break.
"Forgive me for being such a fool," she managed to wring out.
Now, usually I never interrupt a woman when she is crying, as it onlyencourages her to continue; but there was something so unexpected andmysterious about Rosalind's sudden outburst that it was impossible notto be sympathetic. I endeavoured to soothe her with such words asseemed fitting; and as she was crying because she really couldn't helpit, she didn't cry long.
These tears proved, what certain indications of manner had alreadyhinted to me, that Rosalind was more artless than I had at firstsupposed. She was a woman of the world, in that she lived in it, andloved its gaieties, but there was still in her heart no little of thechild, as is there not in the hearts of all good women--or men?
And this you will realise when I tell you the funny little story whichshe presently confided to me as the cause of her tears.
CHAPTER IV
MARRIAGE A LA MODE
For Rosalind was no victim of the monster man, as you may have supposedher, no illustration of his immemorial perfidies. On the contrary, shewas one half of a very happy marriage, and, in a sense, her sufferingsat the moment were merely theoretical, if one may so describe thesufferings caused by a theory. But no doubt the reader would prefer alittle straightforward narrative.
Well, Rosalind and Orlando, as we may as well call them, are two newlymarried young people who've been married, say, a year, and who findthemselves at the end of it loving each other more than at thebeginning,--for you are to suppose two of the tenderest, most devotedhearts that ever beat as one. However, they are young people of theintrospective modern type, with a new theory for everything.
About marriage and the law of happiness in that blessed estate, theyboasted the latest philosophical patents. To them, among othermatters, the secret of unhappy marriages was as simple as can be. Itwas in nothing more or less than the excessive "familiarity" ofordinary married life, and the lack of personal freedom allowed bothparties to the contract. Thus love grew commonplace, and the unhappyones to weary of each other by excessive and enforced association.This was obvious enough, and the remedy as obvious,--separate bedrooms,and a month's holiday in each year to be spent apart (notoriously allpeople of quality had separate bedrooms, and see how happy they were!).These and similar other safeguards of individual liberty they had inmock-earnest drawn up and signed on their marriage eve, as a sort ofsupplemental wedding service.
It would not be seemly to inquire how far certain of these conditionshad been kept,--how often, for example, Orlando's little hermit's bedhad really needed remaking during those twelve months! Answer, yebirds of the air that lie in your snug nests, so close, so close,through the tender summer nights, and maybe with two or three littleones besides,--unless, indeed, ye too have felt the influence of theZeit-geist, and have taken to sleeping in separate nests.
The condition with which alone we have here to concern ourselves wasone which provided that each of the two lovers, hereafter to be calledthe husband of the one part and the wife of the other part, solemnlybound themselves to spend one calendar month of each year out of eachother's society, with full and free liberty to spend it wheresoever,with whomsoever, and howsoever they pleased; and that this conditionwas rigidly to be maintained, whatever immediate effort it might cost,as the parties thereto believed that so would their love the morelikely maintain an enduring tenderness and an unwearied freshness. Andto this did Orlando and his Rosalind set their hands and hearts andlips.
Now, wisdom is all very well till the time comes to apply it; and asthat month of June approached in which they had designed to give theirlove a holiday, they had found their courage growing less and less.Their love didn't want a holiday; and when Orlando had referred to thematter during the early days of May, Rosalind had burst into tears, andbegged him to reconsider a condition which they had made before theyreally knew what wedded love was. But Orlando, though in tears himself(so Rosalind averred), had a higher sense of their duty to their ideal,and was able, though in tears, to beg her look beyond the moment, andrealise what a little self-denial now might mean in the years to come.They hadn't kept any other of their resolutions,--thus Rosalind let itout!--this must be kept.
And thus it had come about that Orlando had gone off for his month'sholiday with a charming girl, who, with the cynic, will no doubtaccount for his stern adherence to duty; and Rosalind had gone off forhers with a pretty young man whom she'd liked well enough to go to thetheatre and to supper with,--a young man who was indeed a dear friend,and a vivacious, sympathetic companion, but whom, as a substitute forOrlando, she immediately began to hate. Such is the female heart!
The upshot of the experiment, so far as she was concerned, was that shehad quarrelled with her companion, and had gone off in search of herhusband, on which search she was embarked at the moment of myencountering her. The tears, therefore,--that is, the first lot oftears by the roadside,--had not been all on account of the injuredbicycle, you see.
Now the question was, How had Orlando been getting on? I had anintuition that in his case the experiment had proved more enjoyable,but I am not one to break the bruised reed by making such a suggestion.On the contrary, I expressed my firm conviction that Orlando wasprobably even more miserable than she was.
"Do you really think so?" she asked eagerly, her poor miserable facegrowing bright a moment with hope and gratitude.
"Undoubtedly," I answered sententiously. "To put the case on the mostgeneral principles, apart from Orlando's great love for you, it is aneternal truth of masculine sentiment that man always longs for theabsent woman."
"Are you quite sure?" asked Rosalind, with an unconvinced half-smile.
"Absolutely."
"I thought," she continued, "that it was just the other way about; thatit was presence and not absence that made the heart of man grow fonder,and that if a man's best girl, so to say, was away, he was able to makehimself very comfortable with his second-best!"
"In some cases, of course, it's true," I answered, unmoved; "but with alove like yours and Orlando's, it's quite different."
"Oh, do you really mean it?"
"Certainly I do; and your mistake has been in supposing that anexperiment which no few every-day married couples would be only tooglad to try, was ever meant for two such love-birds as you. Laws andsystems are meant for the unhappy and the untractable, not for peoplelike you, for whom Love makes its own laws."
"Yes, that is what we used to say; and indeed, we thought that this wasone of love's laws,--this experiment, as you call it."
"But it was quite a mistake," I went on in my character as matrimonialoracle. "Love never made a law so cruel, a law that would rob truelovers of each other's society for a whole month in a year, stretchingthem on the rack of absence--" There my period broke down, so I begananother less ambitiously planned.
"A whole month in a year! Think what that would mean in a lifetime.How long do you expect to live and love together? Say another fiftyyears at the most. Well, fifty ones are fifty. Fifty monthsequal--four twelves are forty-eight and two over--four years and twomonths. Yes, out of the short life God allows even for the longestlove you would voluntarily throw away four years and two months!"
This impressive calculation had a great effect on poor Rosalind; and itis a secondary matter that it and its accompanying wisdom may have lessweight with the reader, as for the moment Rosalind was my one concern.
"But, of course, we have perfect trust in each other," said Rosalindpresently, with charming illogicality.
"No doubt," I said; "but Love, like a good householder (ahem!), doeswell not to live too much on trust."
"But surely love means perfect trust," said Rosalind.
"Theoretically, yes; practically, no. On the contrary, it meansexactly the opposite. Trust, perfect trust, with loved ones far away!No, it is an inhuman ideal, and the more one loves the less one livesup to it. If not, what do these tears mean?"
&nbs
p; "Oh, no!" Rosalind retorted, with a flush, "you mustn't say that. Itrust Orlando absolutely. It isn't that; it's simply that I can't bearto be away from him."
What women mean by "trusting" might afford a subject for an interestingdisquisition. However, I forbore to pursue the matter, and answeredRosalind's remark in a practical spirit.
"Well, then," I said, "if that's all, the thing to do is to findOrlando, tell him that you cannot bear it, and spend the rest of yourholiday, you and he, together."
"That's what I thought," said Rosalind.
"Unfortunately," I continued, "owing to your foolish arrangement not totell each other where you were going and not to write, as beingincompatible with Perfect Trust, you don't know where Orlando is at thepresent moment."
"No; but I have a good guess," said Rosalind. "There's a smart littlewatering-place, not so many miles from here, called Yellowsands, a sortof secret little Monaco, which not many people know of, awicked-innocent gay little place, where we've often talked of going. Ithink it's very likely that Orlando has gone there; and that's justwhere I was going when we met."
I will tell the reader more about Yellowsands in the next chapter.Meanwhile, let us complete Rosalind's arrangements. The result of ourconversation was that she was to proceed to Yellowsands on the morrow,and that I was to follow as soon as possible, so as to be availableshould she chance to need any advice, and at all events to give myselfthe pleasure of meeting her again.